


Shine

by ArchangelUnmei



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, Introspection, Kink Meme, Philosophy, Theatre
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-21
Updated: 2011-04-21
Packaged: 2017-10-18 11:20:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/188381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArchangelUnmei/pseuds/ArchangelUnmei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>America stands center stage every day of his life. Sometimes it's nice to get off it.<br/>(Warnings for massive amounts of theatre geekery within)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shine

**Author's Note:**

> Deanon from the kink meme. Prompt was for a Nation working a normal, mundane job for some reason. My brain took it and turned it into America rambling about the theatre. Go figure.

America's phone goes off in the middle of brunch, which is a shame because France and Canada are just starting to get into a non-argument about the (supposed) nutritional values of poutine, and it looks like it's going to be a good one. They (plus England, Seychelles and New Zealand) all turn to stare at America. (Australia usually comes to these sorts of things too, but he and England are fighting again and not even New Zealand was able to drag him along this time.)

America digs his phone out of his pocket to turn off the alarm and gives them a sheepish grin, pushing his chair back from the table. "Sorry guys, I gotta run or I'll be late for work."

France blinks at him and checks his watch. "It's only eleven-thirty."

America flashes him a brilliant grin and a thumbs up as he grabs his coat off the back of his chair with a dramatic sweep. "Yeah, but it's opening night."

He cheats, a little, as he steps outside, pulling his coat on against the cold and invoking his status as a Nation. He closes his eyes and the world seems to contract around him, so he's no longer standing on the front step of Canada's neat little townhouse in Ottawa but instead just in _Ottawa_. He turns, takes a step, two. He feels it when he crosses the border into his own lands, into Home, and it sends a little jolt up his spine and puts a silly grin on his face. Three more ground-eating steps takes him south, and when he lets himself settle back into the concrete 3D world he's standing in the hall outside his apartment in Boston.

He digs his keys out of his coat and lets himself inside, whistling cheerfully. He tosses his coat onto the couch and goes to shower, whistling turning to slightly off-tune singing as he lets the hot water pound down on his back.

After his shower he dries off and pads naked into his bedroom, rummaging around for a clean pair of black jeans and a shirt. He dresses, then runs a comb through his hair and grins at himself in the mirror. He always loves opening night best. There's always something about the crowds, some special energy that only comes for that very first performance.

And tonight is extra-special, since this is the first time this particular play will be performed _anywhere_. It was just published last year, written by a college grad student in the Midwest who'd never dreamed it would be picked up for its first run by a big name theatre out east. America's never met her, but he feels like he has; she's American, after all. And tonight he'll get to meet her for real.

He glances at his phone and swears when he realizes he really _is_ running late now, grabbing his shoes and hopping into them on his way back to the front door. "Tony!" he yells at the alien in front of the television. "I'll be back late! No mutilated cows in the bedroom this time!" He doesn't bother to wait for an answer as he grabs his coat and keys and leaves at a run.

He must be lucky today, because he just makes his bus at the corner, settling into the seat with a relieved sigh. It would have sucked to have to run the fifteen blocks to the theatre. As it is, he pops his earbuds in and scrolls through his iPod, looking for something to keep him occupied until the bus reaches his stop.

Then it's into the theatre, early enough that there's not many people here yet. He wanders back stage, easily finding the nook behind the leftover set from last year's production of _RENT_ to stash his coat. He's not terribly worried about anyone messing with it, he's been using that nook to stash his things for years now and everyone knows it's his.

"Alfred!"

America turns and waves, smiling at the young woman who jogs up to him across the wide stage. She looks impatient, but then again she always does. Being stage manager is never easy, especially on opening night. "Hiya Heather, what's up?" She's already got her headset on _and_ her clipboard in hand, she's definitely in what the costumers have dubbed Scary Hyper Nitpick Mode.

She wrinkles her nose a little at him (she has freckles, but that's because she's originally from Kentucky, America can feel it singing to him from her bones even if her accent didn't give her away). "Alfred, have ya run your cues yet?"

"Just about to, ma'am!" He gives her a playful salute, and she rolls her eyes and smacks him lightly in the shoulder with her clipboard.

"House opens at six, show starts at seven, I don't want you down after five-thirty, so make all your potty breaks before then, got it?"

"Got it," America gives her a thumbs up this time, making mental notes. "Bathroom at five, cats by five-thirty."

(Canada's come to see shows sometimes, he says he's never seen America more focused except in war. America thinks that's a pretty weird comparison, even coming from Canada. In war, he concentrates because if he doesn't, people are going to die. In the theatre, he concentrates because... well okay, maybe the comparison does work after all. America's pretty sure Heather would not hesitate to murder someone and hide their body under the stage if she thought it was necessary. America makes another mental note; check the crawl spaces under the stage after the show tonight.)

Heather gives him an approving nod and checks her clipboard again. "Have you seen Mike?"

"Nope," America shrugs. "Sorry. If I see him I'll tell him you need him."

"Don't bother," Heather rolls her eyes. "Just have him run cues with you."

America nods, and the stage manager turns to stalk off to her next task on the never-ending list of chores to be done. America blows a kiss at her back, then turns back to the stage.

He ambles out to center-stage and just stands there for a minute, thumbs hooked into his pockets and head tipped back a little. Most of the lights are still off, the house completely dark, but he doesn't mind. He just smiles, hearing the whispers rising around him, snatches of Shakespeare and Rodgers & Hammerstein, the rustle of lace petticoats and silk ties.

Performing. Everyone does it. _All the world's a stage_ , England had quoted to him once, he meant it bitterly at the time but America knows it's true. And sometimes it seems it's even _more_ true for Nations.

Pretending. Smiling at people when you hated their guts, really _really_ hated their red bleeding guts. Shaking hands and making nice for the cameras and the bosses when all you really wanted to do was rip someone's face off. Or conversely (and worse), giving the cold shoulder silent treatment to someone you really, _really_ just wanted to hug and never let go. Nations live forever, they'd all been through those cycles and they'd all go through them again. France and England went to war every hundred-fifty years like clockwork.

Sometimes America thinks it's just all one big fantastic fairytale. It's nice to pretend.

And so he'd been drawn to the theatre, years and years ago, because in theatre you could pretend to be all _sorts_ of things, and forget what you _had_ to pretend to be in real life.

Movies, now, movies are sort of the same. Movies are _really cool_ , America'd been in _love_ with movies in the '40's and '50's and he still gets a hard-on listening to John Wayne talk, but movies are _too_ fake. Watching them is awesome, but when you're actually there for the filming it's all stopping and starting and lets-do-that-again-eight-more-times and America finds it all too tedious.

So he'd returned to the theatre, because in the theatre the show must go on and there's so much energy and life and _passion_.

America wonders, sometimes, if any of the other Nations understand the theatre like he does. England probably, he thinks, the man who gave birth to Shakespeare and Broadway and Andrew Lloyd Webber.

But at the moment England's not here and so it doesn't matter. America still has cues to run, but for the moment the theatre is empty except for him and a thousand past productions of everything under the sun. These are the kind of ghosts he can stand; the memory of a little girl singing _Castle on the Clouds_ who'd grow up to be on Broadway; a wizened old man with a voice that can echo to the rafters, bigger than his whole body; a tall stately woman with her hair in a knot and a bearing like a princess even if what she's wearing is a costume. America knows them all, his people, his actors on his stage.

He doesn't even realize he's moving until he stops. He blinks at himself, then shrugs, laughs and keeps going, spinning across the stage just because he can. Fosse was one of America's too, his choreography is burned on America's heart just as surely as Marilyn's smile. He keeps dancing until he's breathless, his laughter echoing through the empty house that'll be full to the brim in just a couple hours.

He turns his face upward again, bathing in spotlights that aren't on, and grins.

Before Heather can find him mucking about on stage (again), he hoists himself up the ladder at stage right. Thirty feet up to the spotlight catwalk, where he checks over his baby and prepares her for the night ahead. In his opinion, theatre has only gotten _better_ since they started making use of technology. There's so many little electrical and engineering bits to play around with now, it's _fabulous_.

America checks to be sure he has his gels in frames and all in order, running through his script cues with his binder open across his knees and his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth. He barely notices when the other spot tech, Mike, climbs into the cat at stage left.

He barely breaks for dinner at four, has to deal with a minor crisis when his spot iris gets stuck shut at 4:40 (lube. It needed lube. America would giggle except this happens roughly once a week), has to go on a mad scavenger hunt through the lighting supply closet at five when he realizes one of the gels he'd pulled out yesterday is the wrong color and doesn't match the one Mike has.

He just has time to run one last trip to the bathroom before five-thirty, and then he climbs the ladder one more time and settles into his seat behind the spot. He takes his headset off the hook on the wall and settles it over his ears so he'll be able to hear Heather's cues when she gives them from her place in the tech booth at the back of the theatre. He looks across at Mike, the empty stage between them and thirty feet below. The other man gives him a thumbs up and a grin, and America returns it.

Techs are supposed to be invisible and unnoticed, even lighting techs sitting out on open catwalks, so America sits still when the house opens and the audience begins filing in. He watches them, though. This is actually one of his favorite parts. He tilts his head, intrigued when he notices a small group of student-age people that aren't his. They feel like Germany's, maybe, or Austria's. Exchange students at one of the local universities, maybe. America grins. Awesome, they have enough sense to come experience American fine art.

He just Knows when the writer of the play walks in, and his eyes are drawn to her immediately. A mousey and timid-looking girl, she seems thoroughly overwhelmed by all the attention she's getting as she's ushered to her seat in the front row.

But finally all the chatter begins to die down as the lights dim, signaling the show will begin soon. America sits up straighter, pushing his glasses up his nose as he flicks his spot on. Then he settles one hand on the handle to aim, the other poised over the knob he'll twist to bring the light up to brightness.

America tried the acting thing for awhile, years ago. But it wasn't long before he discovered something about himself. He loves, loves, _loves_ the theatre, and he _hates_ being _on_ the stage. He has to stand on stage every fucking day of his life; at G8 and G20 summits, at the UN, at Congress, in the Oval Office. All the fucking's world's a stage.

And the theatre is a place to escape from what you have to do every day.

So America loves sitting behind the stage, or in this case above it, for once out of the spotlight, unnoticed yet still playing a vital role.

He's shaken out of his thoughts when Heather's voice sounds in his headphones. She sounds quiet and calm enough, but America's known her long enough to hear the jittery excitement dancing beneath her words.

"Spot 2," That's Mike. "Get ready to spot the manager for the introduction. Ready... Go."

Mike's spot comes on to illuminate the theatre manager on the stage, and America's tongue pokes out of the corner of his mouth again as he swings his spot around, still dark but aiming, waiting for Heather's cue.

"Spot 1," America grins, fingers resting on his spot controls. "Spot on the writer. Ready..."

America's grin is nearly as bright as the spotlight itself.

Time to make someone else shine.

**Author's Note:**

> Poutine is a Canadian... dish? I guess? It's basically French fries, but with gravy and cheese curds over top. Canadians love it, most of the rest of the world finds it... odd.
> 
> On my method of having Nations travel... I figure for things like crossing an _ocean_ they probably need a ship or plane, but for moving around on one continent, especially within their own borders, there's got to be a way they can 'cheat' the distances so they can be wherever they're needed. That's just my take on it.
> 
> Yes, Heather is based on someone I know. Best scary bitch stage manager ever, but she gets shit done.
> 
>  _House_ \- the part of the theatre where the audience sits. That is, everything that's not stage or backstage. This is a lighting term as well, 'house lights' versus 'stage lights' and 'spots'.  
>  _Cats_ \- Catwalks. Metal walkways hanging from the ceiling that you use to access lighting or high bits of scenery, also usually where spots are mounted. Because of the illusion of theatre, general practice is that if the ladders for the spotlight techs are in sight of the audience, then the spot techs have to be at their places before the audience starts coming in, and cannot leave while the audience is still there to see them climbing down.  
>  _Shakespeare_ \- ...Hopefully this one's obvious.  
>  _Rodgers and Hammerstein_ \- Well known American songwriting duo, best known for shows like _Oklahoma!_ , _The King and I_ , and mostly _The Sound of Music_.  
>  _John Wayne_ \- My headcanon is that any Alfred, anywhere, has the hugest mancrush on The Duke.  
>  _Andrew Lloyd Webber_ \- Well known British songwriter, best known for _The Phantom of the Opera_ and _Cats_.  
>  _Castle on the Clouds_ \- A song from the musical _Les Miserables_ which is sung by a young girl, usually somewhere around 10-14.  
>  _Fosse_ \- Bob Fosse, American director and choreographer, best known for pretty much revolutionizing the art of stage dancing.  
>  _Marilyn_ \- Monroe, of course, Alfred's great movie love after John Wayne.  
>  _Gels_ \- Colored pieces of cellophane that you slide in front of the spotlight to make colored spots. You just have to make sure the colors match between all the spots, because when they _don't_ it's more noticeable than you'd think.  
>  _Lube_ \- The iris is the bit of the spotlight that makes the light bigger or smaller. It's a fiddly bit of equipment, prone to sticking. Usually you squirt a little WD-40 in and you're good. There was one memorable time at my theatre that we were out of WD-40 and didn't have time to find more, so we made do with lube. It worked.


End file.
